Colors of the End
by lucacat4
Summary: Sam wants out of the hunting life, wants to take up his scholarship and go to Stanford. The problem is, even with the scholarship, he doesn't have enough money to get going on his own, and John isn't willing to aid him in such a cause. That leads Sam to one another option: put his fighting and survival skills to good use, and join another kind of hunt. The American military.
1. Chapter 1

Dean wakes to the sound of someone moving around the room. _Sammy_, his mind notes immediately. He can recognize his brother's sounds even without looking, just by hearing the long strides and the quiet huffing of his breath and the _vvvvvpppp_ of zippers closing. Sam's the only one in the Winchester family who's really neat about his stuff, not only his weapons but also his clothes, books, bags. Dean rolls onto his back but pretends to still be asleep, cracking open one eye when Sam's back is turned, then closing it hurredly again. Sam moves, springs creak as he sits on his bed, then Dean can hear the sound of a pen scratching across paper. He sighs, and finally gives in to the realization that sleep is beyond his reach now. Sam looks up as Dean opens his eyes and stretches his arms, accidentally whacking his elbow on the wall behind his pillow.

"What're you doing?" Dean's voice is rough, and Sam rummages in his duffle bag to pull out a water bottle, which he tosses to Dean. Mother hen.

"Not much, just getting my stuff together in case we have to move out again."

Dean raises himself up on one elbow. "This isn't about Stanford, is it? You clashing with Dad again?"

"Dean, you know what it's like. I just...I just want to get an education, live a normal life, ok? Get away from hunting for a while, maybe forever. Not dangle my life on a stick everyday, not-not take part in a literal game of kill or be killed? And I can't make Dad understand, just _can't_. He doesn't get it, doesn't see any point in going to college; he can't let me go, Dean. I want to go, and he won't let me, even with a scholarship. A scholarship, man! It's such a good opportunity right here, right here in front of me, and all I need is a little money to get me going. Couple hundred dollars, that's it, just until I work everything out. With Dad, you'd think I was asking for his life savings. Jeez, this is messed up."

"Hey. Sam. Look at me. _Hey_. It's going to be fine, ok? Dad loves you, you know, he just wants to do what he thinks is right. He really does think this is the right thing, and believe me, I know this life isn't a piece of cake, but it's what we do, you know? This is what we do, what we've always done. Family business, dude. This is important, we're saving lives here, killing the enemy-I'm not saying college isn't important, but don't you think that this is pretty important too?"

Sam doesn't answer, just drops his head into his hands and remains silent. Dean rolls over so his back is to Sam, and closes his eyes. It hurts to see Sam so despairing, but really, he'll get over it soon enough. In a couple hours they'll go have a couple of burgers and a few cheap beers, and Dean'll flirt with the waitress while Sam laughs at him until Dean teases him about his solitary life. Then Sam'll turn on the puppy eyes that Dean never could resist, still can't, and he'll ruffle Sam's hair until Sam squawks and pushes him playfully away.

And that's what they do. Dean wakes up to Sam tapping away at the computer, a brave and almost unbroken smile on his face when Dean drags him out of the motel and towards the closest diner. They're both a little drunk and very full when they return to their room, and Dad's still not back, so they each pick a bed and flop down to enjoy a couple hours of TV and brotherly bickering. Life isn't so bad after all.

Until it is.

Three weeks and several big Sam-Dad fights later, Dean again wakes up in a motel room. Dad's out having a drink with an old acquaintance, that he knows, but even before he opens his eyes Dean is aware that he is alone. Years of hunting and danger have honed his senses to the extent that, even as he sits up and calls Sam's name, he knows beyond any doubt that Sam isn't here.

His eyes dart back and forth, searching for a clue, heart hammering as he notes that all Sam's things are gone, his bed is made, and the floor clear of debris. A slip of paper catches his eye, and he leans forward, pulling it out from under it's anchor of Sam's pillow.

An envelope, blank except for _Dean_ written on it in blue pen and in Sam's neat, square handwriting. His fingers can't help trembling a little as he opens it, breath catching in his throat as he pulls out a folded piece of paper and begins to read.

_Dean,_

_By the time you read this, I'll already be gone. _

_I'm sorry to leave you, and I'm sorry to leave Dad, but this needs to be done. I want to live a normal life, Dean, I don't want to be a freak any more. If Dad won't lend me some money for college, I'm going to have to do something else. I can't stay there anymore, not even for you. You and Dad do better on your own anyway, without me pulling you down and holding you back. _

_It's better this way. Funny how I imagined my escape from this life and death existence would be college, but turns out I'm just moving to another kind of life and death existence. That's the Winchester luck for you. Ironic and stupid, seems like some kind of horrible joke. _

_This may not be what I want to do, but it's what I need to do. It's my only option for a change, and I certainly feel prepared for it, what with Dad's training and all this experience in hunting and killing and trying to stay alive. That's how I've grown up, it's basically all I know, so I think I'll be an asset to this cause and be doing something to help this country. You're already doing your part, you and Dad-you were right, what you said those weeks ago. We do save lives and kill the enemy. I'm just doing it another way, now._

_I won't give you too much detail about where I'm going because I don't want you to try and track me down. I'm joining the military. That's all you need to know, and I'll write to Bobby so that you can get my letters from him._

_Take care of Dad, Dean. And, please-take care of yourself, if you can manage to do such a thing. I know you hate sappy chick-flick moments, but I think this one is unavoidable. _

_I'm aware of the risks. Hunting is dangerous in any form, and this is just another path of hunting. I might not come out of this. Ever. I might come out of it a different person, physically and emotionally and mentally. If this is the last time I'll ever be able to communicate with you, I want you to know that you're an awesome big brother and I love you. Stay strong._

_Sammy_

Dean closes his eyes as needles prick behind his eyelids and force hot, wet tears to fall and stain Sam's letter. His shoulders shake but he makes no sound as the torrent flows, even as he lips pull back in a silent howl of despair and grief and anger and his chest heaves with the weight of his problems.

For once, he doesn't have Sam's back.

But he will. He swears to god, he's going to get Sam home no matter what.

* * *

A/N: So! Good, bad, okay? Sam's joined the army...the question is, will he come out, when will he come out, and how will he come out? If you liked it, PLEASE review. If you hated it, PLEASE review. I'll only write more if I get some feedback, but I'd like to continue this story and see where it plays out.


	2. Chapter 2

It's begun. Private Samuel Winchester, reporting for service.

He jolts awake, snapping to attention as his alarm screams and red numbers flash _5:00 am, 5:00 am, 5:00 am_. Fortunately for him, he's had plenty of experience in getting up early and packing and dressing in record time, so it's not as difficult for him as for some of the other struggling recruits.

Still, it doesn't feel right. Dean's not here, Dad's not here, he's alone, more alone than he's ever been before. No one has his back now; he's going to have to take care of himself. Big brother isn't here anymore.

Sam shakes himself out of his reverie and jumps down from the top bunk of the bunk bed he's sharing with another young man, reaching up to make the bed, pulling the sheets tight-military style-before whipping off his t-shirt and exchanging his clothes for a navy green shirt and khaki pants. The officers drilled all the new recruits last night in the rules of boot camp: lights out at midnight, up at 5:00 am every morning, room spotless by 5:15 and at breakfast by 5:30. Then there's training and classes and more training and work and more training, all the way through the day until midnight and the whole routine begins again.

In some bizarre way, he almost feels at home. The sharp discipline doesn't whip him into shape so much as fit around him, as if he is the matching piece in a puzzle. After all, Dad was a former marine and his "training" held much of the vigor and toughness of his own military days. Discipline, too, is key in the Winchester family, and even if Dean was usually the better and more obedient soldier, Sam knows how to follow orders. Growing up in his family, with his kind of life, you grow a steel shell around yourself pretty quickly. You learn to deflect and ignore the unnecessary and the distracting, focus only on the task at hand and get it done, pronto.

5:08 am. Sam slips his ID chain over his head, puts his card in his pocket, and joins the shuffling, bleary-eyed line of men dragging themselves to breakfast. He's already wide-awake; nerves tingling and eyes clear, neatly saluting the superior officer who stands guard outside the door to the cafeteria.

The rolling chatter of the room halts and the clinking of silverware abruptly breaks off as an older man in a dark jacket and cameo pants steps up to the podium.

"ALRIGHT, LISTEN UP EVERYBODY!" His voice is thunderous, yelling into the microphone as if he's unaware that it's there at all. "YOU GOT TEN MINUTES TO FINISH UP, THEN OUT TO THE YARD! TEN MINUTES, STARTING...NOW! FINISH UP, TEN MINUTES TO GO!"

"Jeez, hope they're not all like that," jokes the young man sitting on Sam's left. Sam chokes a little on his coffee, gasping.

"I hope not, but I think we might be out of luck. That's kind of what the military is, you know?"

The man grins. "Yeah, I know. Hey, nice to meet you-I'm Roy. Roy Wilmer." He's got buzz-cut brown hair, slightly spiky, and somehow reminds Sam of Dean. His eyes are kinder and softer than Dean's though, wider and more innocent and they're blue, not green.

Sam extends a hand. "Hey, Roy, nice to meet you. I'm Sam."

Roy raises an eyebrow, gesturing with one hand. "Sam…?"

"Oh. Winchester. Sam Winchester." Sam grins sheepishly, turning back to his toast.

"Well, Sam Winchester, what d'ya think of this place? I gotta admit, I thought we'd be eating spam or canned beans or something, but this is actually pretty good!" To illustrate his point, Roy slathers a forkful of pancake in maple syrup and pops it into his mouth, chewing appreciatively, cheeks distended. Sam can't help but laugh.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just...you remind me of my brother, that's all."

"Oh, really? He in the military, too?"

"What? Oh, no, he's-no. No, he's not." Sam's smile lingers for a moment, then fades. _Dean may not be in the military, but he's fighting his own enemies. Lots of them, more frightening and intimidating than most people would ever imagine._

Roy glances at Sam, then, as though recognizing Sam's retreat, drops the conversation and turns back to his food, allowing Sam to do the same.

The voice booms again, making several people jump in shock.

"OK, THERE WE GO, YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES BEFORE YOU'RE OUTTA HERE! TWO MINUTES EVERYBODY, GET TO IT, NO STRAGGLING, THIS IS IT!"

The clatter of dishes swells as everyone hurries to dump their dishes in the large plastic bins scattered throughout the room, then hurries outside to gather on one of the fields, a massive, heaving mass of chaotic bodies and loud voices.

The shouting guy pushes his way to the front again, and puts a megaphone up to his lips.

"QUIET!" The noise fades for a few seconds, and then dies away. "First rule: when I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed-_instantly_ and without fail. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Together, louder-do you understand?!"

"YES, SIR!"

"Ok, then, very good. My name is Drill Sergeant Stein, I will be directing your basic training for the next ten weeks. The order is as follows: Week 1 is "Fall In" week, then Direction, Endurance, Marksmanship, Trials, Camaraderie, Confidence, Combat Skills, Victory Forge, Graduation. You will receive your orders mostly from me, you answer to me, you respond to _me._ Your classes' lists will be delivered to you in the next few days. You have all been assigned roommates, with whom you will bunk for the next ten weeks. I don't want to hear about any problems, you hear me? Here at Basic Training we have ZERO tolerance for that sort of thing, those who do not follow our orders WILL NOT SUCCEED! Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Alright then, here we go. We're going to start off nice and easy, light workout to get your blood flowing, then we'll progress into something more challenging. You've all taken your physicals and your tests so NO EXCUSES will be accepted. Alright, let's begin-I want to see you DROP AND GIVE ME 100 PUSH-UPS, starting...NOW!"

spnspnspnspnspnspn

By about 10:30pm, dinner is over, training is done for the day, and a mass of sweaty, tired recruits are hobbling, stumbling, and yawning their wake back to their rooms. Sam's muscles are heavy and he's sure he'll be sore tomorrow, but for the first day, he thinks he did pretty well. Dad's workouts have never been proven un-worthwhile, and certainly not today. In fact, he kept himself near the front of the pack during the sprints and long-distance runs, and his timing during the calisthenics drills was also among the top.

Too tired even to shower, Sam changes and then climbs up into bed, listening to the sounds of his roommate moving around. A bump and a muffled curse startle him out of his drowsy daze, and he leans over the edge of the bed.

"Hey, you ok?"

The young man smiles ruefully, rubbing his head. He's almost as tall as Sam, lean and strong with a friendly, round face and wavy blond hair. "Oh, uh, yeah—sorry, didn't realize this thing was so low and I just hit my head."

Sam can't help grinning a little. "Don't worry, man, my brother always makes fun of me for hitting my head and tripping over my feet and generally being a klutz. Well—did, anyway. Guess I'm out of his reach, now."

His roommate laughs good-naturedly, extending a hand. "Matt."

Sam reaches down, and is surprised by a firm and capable grip. "Sam."

Matt ducks his head and flicks his fingers in a friendly, casual salute. "G'night, Sam."

Sam lies awake in the quiet room, the peace broken only by steady, quiet breathing below him. His bed is narrow and stiff, and though he rolls around he can't seem to get comfortable. He opens his mouth, about to whisper to Dean, then closes it with a snap as he remembers that the breathing he hears is not his brother's, but that of a stranger.

Sam blames the hot, prickly, wet feeling behind his eyes on lack of sleep and too much exercise.

* * *

**A/N: Alright, dear readers! So, we've got Sam getting established in his military training, and a few new characters have joined the adventure. I'm sorry for the lack of John/Dean in this chapter, if you'll stick with me, the next chapter will begin where we left off with them. If you're still enjoying the story and would like me to continue, please please please review! If you absolutely hate the story and think it's the worst thing ever, please please please review! Let me know your thoughts, whatever they are. **


	3. Chapter 3

_Dean closes his eyes as needles prick behind his eyelids and force hot, wet tears to fall and stain Sam's letter. His shoulders shake but he makes no sound as the torrent flows, even as he lips pull back in a silent howl of despair and grief and anger and his chest heaves with the weight of his problems. _

_For once, he doesn't have Sam's back._

_But he will. He swears to god, he's going to get Sam home no matter what._

Most people, returning to a room at 11:15 at night, would enter quietly and try not to disturb their family. Dean can hear Dad walking all the way down the corridor, pulling the door open and then letting it fall with a crash that makes him cringe. He just hopes to god his father isn't drunk-on top of everything, that would be too much.

He's not. He walks through the door, carelessly slinging his coat over a chair with a nod to Dean, and sits down on the third bed to clean his weapons before turning in for the night. A double take, and the first glint of suspicion flickers in his eyes.

"Sam's not here?"

Dean isn't sure what to say. _No, Dad, he's not here. I think we drove him out and now he's run off and he could get himself killed for all we know, and we can't do anything about it and you probably would be too mad at him to do anything anyway. _

He rubs a hand over his face, clearing his throat. "Uh, no. No, he's-he's not here." His tone is almost casual, but they've not lived together without learning to read each other's voices, and John can define them all-happy, sad, angry, annoyed, in pain, grieving. This one is something different. It's shock, despairing shock with only a thin veil hiding the raw hurt.

His head snaps up, eyes darting to his son's face, then around the room, noting the lack of bags and the uncharacteristically clean bed. His voice, too, is quiet and clear, but Dean can hear the warning rising. They're coming up on dangerous territory-he can almost smell it, like a storm brewing, the rage that's just biding its time before igniting.

"Where is your brother, Dean." It's more of a statement than a question, too steady to sound inquisitive. Dean's mouth twitches at the choice of words. Dad doesn't ask, _where's my son_, but _where's your BROTHER_. As if Dean must take responsibility for Sam not being there. The thought makes his throat tighten, because Dean can't help it, he does feel in large part responsible for Sam. He's always looked out for Sam, it's been his job as long as he can remember-had to be, because their father's rough and ready exterior rubs painfully with Sam, always has. _Had_, he corrects himself. Sam's gone now.

It's cowardly, he knows, and even as he hates himself for not facing up to it like a man, Dean doesn't speak, but looks away and extends a hand in John's direction, Sam's note twisted in his fingers. He can feel John take it, and Dean quickly withdraws his hand, dropping it into his pocket. The silence is tangible as John reads, stretching on from seconds to minutes until Dean wants to curse, scream, yell, anything to break the suffocation of it all.

"Damn."

It's a whisper, light and airy and Dean looks up in surprise, just in time for the flood to break loose.

"DAMMIT, Dean, what the _hell_ is going on? I don't know what's happening here, he knows better than to do something this stupid! We stick together, he knows that as well as any of us, and we never abandon a job, never!"

John's up and pacing, now, the tirade forceful and brutal, lips curved back in a mix of fury, hurt, worry, and confusion. "He left this, what-couple hours ago? Couldn't even face his own family, could he, just ran off with his tail between his legs! I should've known something like this was bound to happen, he never was like us, wouldn't follow orders and put school in front of hunting-"

It's too much. Dean's on his feet, eyes blazing.

"Dad, you ever consider that this is _our fault_? We drove him out, can't you see that? This life isn't healthy, it hardens us, look what it's done to you! We used to be a real family, but Sammy never had that, he doesn't remember what being normal is like because he never _got that chance_! Can you blame him for wanting something different? Hell, sometimes he barely knows you, _I _barely know you, don't see you for days on end-you could be dead, for all we know, for all he knows, and it's not fair, Dad! We never gave him a choice, never let him try anything else out, just carted him around his whole life and filled the days with monsters and spirits. He's never had enough time to get settled, never got to stay in one school, and he never had a mom! He doesn't remember Mom either, and now half the time he's without a dad. I raised, him, Dad, not you. I understand him. Don't blame him for being a bad boy and running away, don't you do that-we're the ones that should take the blame, we drove him out and this whole stupid mess is because of us!"

"Dean, remember who you're talking to, you hear me?"

"Oh yeah, I hear you, Dad. Listen, I can live the hunting life, I can deal with it, but you're too hard on Sam. You have to understand, he's not one of your marines, you can't order him around day after day and but not be there for him when he needs you most. A good leader doesn't exist only to lead the fight, Dad, you of all people should know that. A good leader leads the fight, yeah, but sometimes he leads the retreat, too! You can't always win, and you're not always right. A good leader fights with his officers, side by side, guides them along the way, doesn't shove them all over the place. Sometimes, we need to know that we're all there for each other, that our team isn't tireless. Give him a rest, Dad. Please. And let's go bring him home. Please, Dad?"

His father's face is red from emotions and alcohol, stony and hard. "Dean, you don't understand what it's like out there. The world is cruel, son-it's cruel and it's unfair, and doesn't matter whether he's fighting monsters or people, it hurts too much to lose. Believe me, I know. I've been there myself. Maybe you didn't know this, but there was a time when I felt not so different from Sam right now. I felt angry and upset at the world, pushed too hard by my parents until I went over the edge and felt the only escape was war, not war with myself or war with my parents but a war _for_ myself and _for_ my parents. I fought for the people I loved, Dean, that was the only way I could make peace with myself. I fought for my family when I was just a young man, I fought for you and Sam and Mary, and now I fight for you boys. It's Sam's turn now. You and I have our battle, you let him go fight his own. You let him go, Dean. Let him go, son."

Dean can't hold back the tears. He tries and tries, but they trickle out anyway and crawl down his face. For the second time, Sam's envelope is stained and wet. Dad's hand descends, warm and heavy on Dean's shoulder.

Several hundred miles away, another young man pulls his knees up to his chest and resolutely closes his eyes against the twist of hurt that clogs in his throat and throbs in his head. He tries to ignore how fragile and ungrounded he feels, without the comforting weight of a steadying hand on his shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry for the wait on this update! I'll try to update more quickly than that in the future. Just wanted to say, if any of you are following "Are You My Brother?" or "The Thorns in Your Dreams," I've set those stories aside for a little while because I didn't get much support or really more than a few reviews, anyway. So sorry if you were enjoying either of those. This one I'll keep up, though.**

**I've seen that many people have visited this story but very, very few have reviewed-to those who have left comments, thank you SO much. To those who haven't, is there any chance that you'd consider leaving a review? It doesn't take long, but means the world to the writer. Thank you in advance.**

* * *

He's still pained by a niggling ache for Dean and Dad-especially Dean, though-he manages for the most part to set it aside, not get rid of it but not dwell on it too much either.

Dean hasn't called. _That_ hurts, it really does. Sure, he wasn't expecting Dad to call, but Dean? Maybe they're not the most lovey-dovey of siblings, but it's been nearly six weeks now, and he was hoping to hear his brother's voice.

_Maybe they're better off without me, just the two of them with no one to hold them back_. Sam knows he's being childish, but he can't quite stuff the thought away, can't banish it because it's too possible. Dad and Dean, Dean and Dad, two peas in a pod-they're both natural soldiers, tough and ruthless and capable of ruling out everything but the job on hand. They do what needs to be done, they accept what needs to be accepted. Maybe he should take a leaf out of their book, and accept that Dean isn't going to call, Dad isn't going to call, no one is going to call because they're better off without him and calling would be unnecessary and unadvisable. _Fine, then. You don't want to talk, I don't want to talk._

Sam's phone remains silent, the screen dark and battery full. He doesn't call.

* * *

Life settles into a familiar rhythm. Training and drills and aching muscles and ravenous hunger, hoarse voices and trembling limbs and echoing shouts. The smell of salty sweat and heat permeates everything, seems to latch onto his nose until he develops an immunity of sorts and can manage not to cringe at the pungent odor. Getting tougher everyday, that's what this is about-conquering your hurdles and building a wall of strength and stamina, mental and physical. It's hard, of course, but he hasn't grown up in the life of a hunter, a Hunter, for nothing, and Sam pulls satisfaction from each workout and every crumb of progress he makes. Pain is the feeling of weakness leaving the body, and he can feel it alright, but he's pulling ahead of his peers, taking the lead, and he revels in it. This is what he's been taught to do his entire life, to beat his limits and set new ones, beat those again and never take a fall without getting back up, each time more quickly than the last.

He can't help wondering what Dean and Dad are up to, what they're hunting. Chin-ups. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. _Changeling? Sit-ups. _Twenty...forty...sixty...eighty...one hundred._ Starving, starving, starving, musteatfoodrightnow. Shtriga_?_

_"_Huh?" Matt groans as he pushes himself up from his bunk, stretching tight muscles and flexing his arms. "What d'ya say?"

"Nothing, sorry. W'time is it?"

"Bout...9:45. We got the night off tonight. Your family coming for graduation tomorrow?"

_Yeah, of course! My entire family is coming out to support me, they're going to be here for the day and then we'll all head home together until my leave is over. My mom's bringing a picnic, can you believe her? She's positive they starve us over here, she's taking us all out for dinner to celebrate._

"Nah, they can't, um, can't make it. Business, college, you know how it is." He lies through his teeth, hoping Matt will take the message and back off from painful territory. Sam doesn't even know what he's going to do for the two weeks he has off-probably just try and crash at a motel, get all the sleep and junk food he can before he returns for advanced training.

"Oh. Ok. Yeah, I got you, that's cool. My mom is practically dragging my brother out here, you'd think he'd wanna see me but I guess he's happier when I'm not at home, you know?"

_I know. Believe me, I know_.

* * *

"Thank you all so much for coming, one more round of applause for these brave young men that stand before you, and we'll see you back here in two weeks."

Samuel Winchester, E-3, slings his duffle over his shoulder and pushes past the crowd of cooing mothers and guffawing fathers, trying not to see the tears in one gentle sister's eyes, or the way a brother punches his older sibling playfully on the arm. There's no Impala, no Dean and no Dad, cause he's left them behind now, far behind on a different road altogether.

AIT, here he comes.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you so much for everyone who added input, or read/reviewed! I received mixed responses as to how to continue this story, but it seems like the overwhelming majority is for more Sam, and Sam in action. You got it! For those of you who want John/Dean, I'll get back to them really soon, probably in the next chapter. Seems like you guys are content with the amount of Sam's training you've seen, so I'll drop him right into action.**

**Just imagine that all his pre-war training has been completed, and he's in active duty...sorry for the lack of formality and the mistakes in this-I mean no disrespect to anyone and everyone who has experience in such things.**

* * *

"Go, go, go go go go GO!" "I need help over here, someone get over here!" "Let's finish this, we got it, c'mon!" "Team 4B, where are you, where are you, come in!" "NOW!"

Organization and chaos clash amid the noise and the heat and the sweat and the blood, waves of violent and virulent happenings that could be called action, but _action_ or _fighting_ seem too two-dimensional, two constricted and simple to name what this is. All his senses are skyrocketing, the weight of his pack and the heaving of his lungs and the pounding pulse of his heart fading to the background as he runs and dodges and leaps and drops. All around, friends and fellow soldiers are doing the same thing, and if he paused for a moment he could pick them out: there's Roy, clinging one-handedly to the jouncing vehicle, and Francis kneeling to stuff something into his pack, Chris ducking and shooting, Jack dodging, Rob, Henry, John, Miles, Mike, Jacob, David, Stephen.

He runs, jumps, falls and picks himself up and runs again amidst the deafening pandemonium. Sediment and dust clogs his throat and settles in his eyelashes, but he doesn't have a free hand to wipe it away as he dashes towards the quick pause that awaits him behind the thick walls of the trailer. He tries his best not to stumble upon bodies or trod over corpses, some so unrecognizable that he can't tell whether they are-were-foe or friend.

"I.E.D, look out!" someone cries to his right, and he drops to the ground, shielding his face with his arms from the pelting shower of rock and dirt that patters harmlessly over his clothes. He was lucky, that time, and the time before and the the time before, but every single one tears something inside him as he staggers away, ears ringing and eyes stinging but not so clouded that he can't see the bodies sprawled like abandoned puppets on the ground.

Finally, finally, finally he reaches the trailer, gasping for breath as he allows his legs to drop beneath him and his body to slump against the sun-baked steel. His watch is missing, so he doesn't know what time it is, but it must be past noon by now.

"WINCHESTER, y'okay?" He recognizes the voice, squints against the harsh light and dusty air penetrating his sunglasses to see the dirty face of the man who approaches.

"Matt!" he calls in relief, glad beyond measure to see his friend and fellow soldier. "Yeah, I'm still here, how 'bout you?"

Matt flashes a smile, teeth white against grimy skin, and flicks a casual, two-fingered salute, tipping his helmet backwards a little. "Aww, you know me, Sam-nothing'll get me down. Pretty crazy out here, huh?" His smile fades as he scans the area and takes in the dirt, the bodies, the broken glass and dented vehicles and the scattered debris. "Don't think I'll ever get used to this, no matter how long we're stuck here. Think it's branded itself behind my eyes, seems like it's all I see these days, ya know?"

"I know, man. Same here." It's a quick moment of relative peace, the kind that Sam relishes and clutches desperately, grateful for small blessings.

"Back at it, then?" Matt heaves himself to his feet, tightens his helmet with a quick twitch of his wrist, and extends a hand down to Sam, who in turn reaches and pulls himself up, slapping the other man's shoulder in a quick, silent message of gratitude and good wishes.

"Back at it." They nod, unsaid words understood and exchanged. _Do what you need to do, stay safe, best of luck_.

Side by side they run, across and up the dirty street, guns up and at the ready, until-

Matt jerks and collapses bonelessly, spread-eagled on his back and eyes open wide in surprise. Sam spins on his heel, kicking up dust as he turns and reaches out and tries to grab his friend's jacket, but a blinding pain explodes in his chest, and his vision narrows, goes white, then black.

* * *

It's been said, time and time again, but one can't really understand it, can't fully _absorb_ it until the real, living, in-the-flesh moments.

War is hell. Fiery. Icy. Bitter. Sweet. Inexplicable. Obvious. Complex. Simple. _Conflicting_.

The memory of the life he once had is a mainstay, the thoughts a thin but strong lifeline. In place of Dad's whiskey-roughened voice, he's assaulted by the screams of the terrified, the hurt, the dying. Instead of Dean's jokes and sly humor, he's surrounded by the frantic hum of panicked shouts and urgent calls, and the miserable whispering of pawns in a cruel, tortuous game. He doesn't fall asleep to the heavy breathing of his family, no, not anymore-instead, eyes to heavy to hold open any longer drop closed amidst the shrieks of missiles and booms of explosives, the cracks of guns and tremendous thuds of machinery.

Memories are vital here-vital, literally the stuff that keep him going, and in doing so, keep him alive. But war is pitiless and harsh, and even the best memories have a tendency to be crowded up against ones which don't belong. Ugly comparisons.

He remembers walking to countless diners with Dean, grinning half in embarrassment and half in amusement as his brother craned his neck to eye girls who caught his fancy, staring and winking and shamelessly flirting. **Sam walks and stares and sees blood and pain and fear, and wonders, not when his next date will be, but when his ****_final_**** date will be, a date of a very different** **sort. **Today, tomorrow, the next day, or will he have another month, another two months, maybe even three if he's lucky? Or perhaps, there won't be any date, no milestone written on his tombstone, nothing to mark the date of his passing. It's possible that he won't even have a tombstone, may not be recognizable; he could cease to exist and leave no identification, no name, no story except for the few who knew him. Few _really_ know Sam Winchester, really really truly know him.

Days ago, weeks ago, years ago, he dreamt of life. Dreamt of finding a girl, a love life, something more substantial than the one-night stands which seem to satisfy Dean's un-fastidious appetite. Sam hungers for something else. They would be similar, both nerdy and book-lovers, maybe meeting in a library. She's so close, as clearly visible in his mind's eye as if she's been there all the time. Tall and slim, her long blond hair sweeps her back as she rises up on tiptoe to pull a book off a high shelf, her face curtained away from view as she dips her head and flicks through the pages. She's down-to-earth and compassionate, likes baking chocolate chip cookies and reading on the beach and watching old British tv shows that Sam scorns but secretly enjoys.

Sam has always been different from Dean and Dad, always will be-he craves more in life, a solidity and normality which the hunting life didn't give, can't give, and will never give. Perhaps this is one reason he joined this new path-it's meaningful but also recognizable and solid, a black and white battle showcased before the world. Unmistakable and substantial and rock-solid.

Except for now. As his senses leave him, he can feel the world slipping away, the undulating waves of numb darkness enfolding him, muffling the noise and dampening the colors, pulling him into a swirling vortex as he feels himself fall.

He's gone before he can feel the impact of his body hitting the ground.

* * *

**A/N: Just wanted to say two things:**

**First of all, Sam is NOT dead, so there will be more chapters-this is not and will not be a deathfic.**

**Secondly: if you could possibly, just maybe take one moment to review, I'd be extraordinarily grateful. Reviews are what keep me going, so please consider leaving me a few words!**


	6. Chapter 6

Lights. Camera. Action.

It's too much to take in, the bombardment of sensation that assails him as soon as he drags his aching, weighed eyelids up and open. Everything is too bright, moving too quickly, and the noise-it's by turns muted and deafening, a terrifying, thunderous rumble of incomprehensible, unstoppable sound.

Something wells up in him and blurs his vision so that his eyesight looks as though he's underwater. Everything becomes jello in a flowing, formless mass of colors and shapeless shapes that make his head spin in overdrive.

Faceless figures are bending over him, hands extending and mouths running, gaping red-rimmed holes opening and closing like giant goldfish. Thin fingers are reaching towards him, plucking at his clothing and grabbing at his hair in a sickening push and pull game of tug-o-war.

Nothing is stable, nothing is sensible, but as the blackness closes in once more a single word floats up from the gloom and shimmers before his eyes, a blazing imprint in his heart, his mind, his soul. His being. His brother.

Dean.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean scans the page feverishly, fingers tripping over the keys and eyes squinted against the bright light. The results are not encouraging: "We Were Wrong: USA 4D3 Commander Regrets Pull-Out." "Dizzying Shift in Anti-War Protestations." "Ohio Veteran Denied Bonus."

"Dad?"

"Hmp?" John grunts, raising his head from the newspaper in which it was buried. Whether he shows it or not, Dean knows he's been looking just as hard. They've both in tearing papers and journals apart, buying a new one in every stop. Hoping to find some news of Sam.

"You, uh, you find anything?" Dean's voice is raised a half-octave in unconscious anxiety, and he grapples to strangle the worry and concentrate on the job at hand. Not that that does much good, of course-they haven't heard anything for going on three months now, and shouldn't there be SOMETHING about one very special baby brother? Dean keeps multiple wounded and discharged lists open on the laptop all day, every day, constantly scrolled down to the 'W' section in the hopes that one day 'WINCHESTER' will catch his eye. It hasn't yet.

"No, nothing yet. We'll keep lookin', though, I saw a magazine box by the post office earlier today-maybe they'll have one we haven't tried yet. You hungry?"

"Yeah, ok. I'll head out there after dinner and see what they've got." _Check the library too, _Dean thinks to himself, and then squirms as his stomach tightens in constricting grief. The library. That was always Sam's destination, not his.

John hockey-slides a cardboard container of take-out across the table, and Dean catches it absently, feeling for a fork and flipping the lid off expertly. Kung Pao beef, again-this must be the fourth time they've had Chinese this week. Sam would be giving him the worried puppy dog eyes right about now, concerned about his cholesterol and the amount of alcohol that's sloshing around in his system. Not that Dean's gotten drunk, no-not since that first night. That first night, he and John split up and went to separate bars, returning home at roughly the same time hours later, both weighed down by intoxication and stifling grief. Since then, Dean's stuck to beers and a little whiskey-enough to get him through the days (and nights, come to think of it), but not so much that he'd waste a single moment by getting drunk. John's still stumbled in late a few nights, the stink of scotch on his breath, but he's been cutting down too.

Dean stabs aimlessly at his beef, cursing fluently when he actually has to tear his eyes away from the computer to get a piece of the slippery meat on his fork. Suddenly it tastes vile and he pushes it away in disgust, almost panting at the sickly sweet taste on his tongue, the gobs of rubbery fat and dripping yellow grease.

_Waley, Walker, Waver, Wedon, Wellert, White, Winchester, Wynter, Whymbley..._

_Winchester?_

_Winchester._

_Winchester._

_Winchester._

_WINCHESTER._

_"_DAD? I've got him."

**Drop me a review if you're still interested in seeing this play out...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Before anything else, a big thank you to authorwannabe101: you reviewed as a guest so I couldn't thank you directly, but your review was so touching and nice! I was going to work on the next chapter tomorrow or the next day, but I liked your review so much that I wrote this next piece as soon as I read it! Hope you enjoy... **

**Just a note-if you enjoy this story, please consider taking the time to write a review. It doesn't have to be lengthy, just saying "good" or "nice" or "yay" in the review box is enough, and it means so much to the author. Thanks. **

_Hey, kiddo, how ya doing? John clasps his son's shoulder in a manly gesture of affection that sends ripples of warmth through ten-year-old Sam's chest and fills the blue-hazel eyes with light. You ready for dinner? Dean's starving, c'mon. _

_John's mac'n'cheese is a legend in the Winchester family. He's not the most talented cook by any means, but his mac'n'cheese is the ultimate conglomeration of carbohydrates and mounds of stringy melted cheese, sometimes with hot dog and broccoli or breadcrumbs and cherry tomatoes. Dean can shovel down two bowls in a matter of minutes, but Sam is a black hole, four heaping servings disappearing before he finally sits back with a sigh. _

_Dessert is a bag of mini snickers bars Dad picked up from a gas station the other evening, and he and Dean pelt each other with a few wrappers and choice insults before the chocolate begins to melt on their fingers and Dad sends them off to wash their hands with a gentle, goodnatured slap on their heads. _

_Dean's in a good mood tonight, ditching the teasing bad-boy act and just being the older brother that Sam adores so much. After a few minutes spent in friendly shoving, vying for the lion's share of the threadbare couch in the current motel room, they settle down to a movie. Sam won't even remember the title in the morning because he's so sleepy, and his head keeps dipping down of its own accord no matter how hard he tries to hold it up. Finally Dean grabs his shoulders and heaves him down so that Sam's lying half in his lap, head cushioned by rough jeans and cheek poked through the material by the corner of Dean's key card. It couldn't be more comfortable._

_Lying there, warmed by the casual arm slung around his neck, he almost misses the whisper that trickles down through his draining consciousness... _

_Sam..._

_Sam..._

"Sam?"

Sam jerks awake with a snort and a start, grimacing immediately as the pain makes itself known and relaxing in relief as the drugs whisk it away. He wipes sheepishly at the drool wetting his cheek, blinking to clear his blurred vision and see whoever's standing over his bed. _Dean? _His brain trips on the irrational wish before his rationality catches the mistake and hurriedly moves over the aching loss.

Gale extends slow fingers to grasp his shoulder, and Sam pushes himself upright from a bed, not of denim jeans, but soft cotton sheets.

"Hey, hon, you doing ok? Sorry to bother you, I wouldn't have woken you up but the shuttle to the plane leaves in four hours and I know you wanted some time to get your stuff together first."

Plane. Home. Nope. Not home. No more. Right. Where.

He hasn't forgotten, how could he? The ward has been buzzing for weeks about the prospect of going home on leave, and today's the day. Matt's iPad was chirping all day yesterday, a volley of texts from friends and family, all full of excitement to welcome him home. Sam's phone has been dead for months, uncharged since the day he left. Sam doesn't even have a charger anymore-he thinks he left it somewhere at the last motel. It doesn't really matter, that door is closed to him anyway. Not like he's ever going to see his family again. The thought clogs his throat and presses against his eyes until they water in discomfort, streaking his cheeks with wet that he immediately wipes away with hands that tremble and then still.

Here we go. Sam grabs his duffle and flicks the light off in his room, his home for the past four weeks, and closes the door with a soft _snick_ of the lock. Heading toward the van, Sam doesn't look back. He lost his home a long time ago, and no amount of searching will ever lead him to it or it to him.

_See. See the house. See the white house. See mother. See father. See brother. See sister. See John. See Dean._

_See Sam._

_Poor Sam._

_Sam is sad, Dean. Sam is sad, John. Why is Sam sad, why? _

_His cheeks are wet, John. His heart is heavy, Dean. But how can it be so heavy if it is so empty?_

_Find him, Dean. Find him, John. Find Sam. He does not want to be found. He wants to be found. HewantstobefoundhedoesnotwanttobefoundhewantstobefoundhedoesnotwanttobefoundheneedshisFAMILYandtheyneedHIM._


	9. Chapter 9

The cramped quarters of the middle row in the economy-class cabin did nothing to ease his dread. The cabin was cold, and he pulled his camouflage jacket closer around his chest, wincing as fabric pulled on tender skin and his leg cramped in discomfort. A squalling baby several rows up, and the scraping snores of a portly gentleman two seats over agitated a climbing headache, and Sam fumbled in desperation for a couple of painkillers. Which…great—he'd put in his duffle, now somewhere in the belly of the plane. He debated flagging down one of the flight attendants and asking for some Advil, but in the end closed his eyes and tried to tune out the chaos. And immediately snapped them open again, as a metallic crash and tremor shook his seat, memories of flaming grass and bombshell quakes inching up into his mind, only to be resolutely stuffed down. He had enough problems for now without branding himself as the crazy, nightmare-hounded war vet.

A voice over the intercom jarred him from his thoughts: "Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman, and welcome to Delta Flight E411L to Palo Alto Airport in the beautiful Santa Clara, California. My name is Trevor Gailen, and I am the captain of this flight. On behalf of the E411L staff and flight crew, I look forward to assisting you in your travels and wish you a very pleasant journey. Please direct your attention to the screens, where our Delta AirSafe safety video will momentarily begin."

Sam tipped his head back and gazed blankly up at the screen suspended in front of him, eyes looking but not seeing. He couldn't help an involuntary twitch of his lips at the thought of what Dean would say if he could see him now, in pain, tired, lonely, and about to fly—sounded like Dean's worst nightmare, especially for his little brother. Prickly heat stung behind his eyes, and Sam studiously forced it back. There'd be time to indulge in a little girly weakness later, when he'd landed and founded a motel. And figured out what he could possibly do next, with little money and no home.

"You're sure, Dean? You're absolutely sure that this is Sam's flight?" John planted himself squarely in front of his elder son, jaw locked and eyes hard so that Dean could understand the gravity of this situation. The importance.

Dean lifted a hand, and scrubbed his face, pulling back ruefully at the unshaved stubble on his chin. Only someone who knew him truly well would see that he was not at peace, the tick in his temple and the minute tremors of his hand being the only disclosure of his anxiety and upset. Even his voice was calm and steady, eyes clear as he met John's gaze.

"I'm sure, Dad. After all this time, it's really him. We've found him. We've found Sam."

The timbre of his voice broke a little on the last word, and he spun on his heel, stepping into the bathroom. John could hear running water a moment later, the sound of splashing, then the scratch of a towel and a quivering sigh.

Free from his son's view, John groped blindly for the table edge, lowering himself down and dropping his heavy head into his hands. And finally, finally, finally, John let the tears come. They flowed hot and fast and silent, but briefly. And when he looked up and met Dean's pinched face, his eyes were washed clean and bright.

"Let's go bring him home."

They never could decide who said that perfect phrase first, but each saw it reflected in the other, and, joined in perfect union, they stepped outside, closing the door—only temporarily, this time—on the motel room. Complete with three beds, of course. As always.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Big thanks to those who have reviewed! So glad you're enjoying. Long chapter for you here, and probably the one you've all been waiting for…**

"Ladies and gentleman, we have landed at Palo Alto Airport. The time is 3:52 in the afternoon, the temperature approximately 70 degrees Fahrenheit. Thank you for your cooperation, and have a very pleasant rest of your day."

Sam grunts as he peels himself out of his seat, tense muscles protesting and stiff joints popping. He grimaces but makes no movement to reassure the young woman who tosses a concerned glance his way—he's not exactly feeling social, right now. The pain washes over him in dark waves that make him grit his teeth, mouth flattening in opposition to the excited grins of the other soldiers scattered around him. He doesn't know any of them personally, but their joy is unmistakable, and no wonder; they all have family and friends waiting for them just a few steps away, and comfortable homes to return to. His jacket has slipped down to the floor by his feet some time during the flight, and his back twinges as he bends slowly and hooks a finger in the collar, slinging it on. He pauses, head down and eyes closed, before looking up and realizing that everyone is waiting on him. With more resignation than relief, Sam Winchester makes his way down the aisle, across the ramp, and towards the terminal, where the shouts and calls of delighted voices are already ringing clear.

All the khaki soldiers' bags have already been collected off the carousel, and his is by the front, easily in reach. The familiar weight of his duffle grounds him a little more, and with a breath, he steps into the terminal.

And stumbles back a little in surprise.

After the low lights of the plane, the brightly-lit terminal makes him squint. A far cry from the shabbier airport on the other side of his journey, this one is massive, high vaulted ceilings and plush red seating illuminated by searing overheads.

Most overwhelming, though, is the crowd.

Mobs of people are shouting, waving neon signs and violent gesturing, some jumping up and down and others covering their faces to hide the tears. Sam's fellow soldiers' faces are glowing with excitement, some shiningly wet but all ecstatic. One gruff-looking man in a navy blue uniform darts forward and collides with a little girl in pigtails, who screams in excitement as he tosses her up onto his hip and clasps her in a hug. A younger soldier walks slowly forward, and clasps a grizzled older man, most likely his father, in a long handshake. More camouflage suits run forward and tackle children, parents, partners, and friends, signs and banners flying up and showering down like confetti as their holders find a warm body to grasp. But there's no one here for a lonely Winchester, and why would there be, anyway? Not like they've got any contact left—Sam broke the last of that, months ago. John was pretty clear that he wasn't going to provide the support Sam asked for, and Dean? Well, Dean, whatever his mixed feelings, stood with John. That was enough for Sam.

It's too much to handle.

The sleek black car veers into a spot in the indoor parking lot, Dean out almost before it stops, slamming the door uncharacteristically impatiently. He's more jittery than the time he drank an inadvisably large amount of Red Bull and caffeine in the space of a few hours, eyes darting frantically, legs twitching, fingers clenching and unclenching. John doesn't allow his emotions to manifest so obviously, but even he is nervous and anxious, face tight and lined but eyes burning with an unreadable something.

They take the lot at a run, loping gracefully around cars, ignoring the frustration of the drivers. John and Dean push through the swing doors and pause, Dean twisting in a full circle as they scan the crowds for one particular figure.

A soft growl of anxious worry rises in John's throat as he searches desperately. Dean runs his fingers frantically through his hair, clasping his hands behind his neck, then suddenly dropping them to point a finger.

A familiar and unwanted heat pricks behind his eyes and something in his throat slides down like a block of ice to his stomach. Sam turns and heads out away from the crowds, pushing and shoving his way through when the mob doesn't give and ignoring the curious and pitying looks aimed at his retreating back. They don't understand. Hell, he doesn't understand much of anything anymore, and the only thing he can think of is that he needs a motel, a drink, and maybe a year of sleep.

The exhaustion, misery, and despair hit him like a ton of bricks. The crushing weight is not only mental but physical, and as the live reality bears down, so does the old pain. Sam stumbles and flings out a hand, grabbing a rail on the glass wall and clutching it with a shaking hand.

He draws in a breath, and lets his head hang down.

And snaps it up as the sound of one well-known voice travels above the babble of the busy room.

"SAM!"

Oh, god, they're there.

Oh, god, he's here.

Sam's vision flashes white for a moment, then clears and tunnels, and suddenly all he can see are the two figures standing side by side on the other end of the room. Somehow, even from this distance, he can see the moisture in two pairs of eyes, the wrinkles and tense shoulders that suddenly drop in pure relief.

Time slows down, freezes, and then suddenly picks up again. And the figure on the left is running towards him, legs pumping to cross the giant distance, pounding feet eating up the floor. Sam wants to hold his ground and stay standing, a torrent of emotions assaulting him and telling him to stay back and run forward and hide and come, but his legs give way and he feels himself sliding to the floor, spine pressed against the wall and head tipped back.

Warm hands grab him before he hits the floor, arms like bands of steel hooking over and around his chest, easing him down. They pull him in, wrapping him up and pulling him, enveloping him and shutting out the harsh lights and sounds. A calloused hand gently draws his head down to a warm bed of flannel, and a voice whispers over and over again: "Sammy, Sammy, I gotcha, ok, I gotcha, you're right here with me, it's Dean, I'm here, I gotcha, Sammy, you're gonna be just fine, I gotcha, I'm here little brother, I gotcha, Sammy, I gotcha."

Finally, finally, the pressure loosens, the ache gives way, and the tears come. They have a home now.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Wow, people. I am so stunned by the responses! They are much better than I ever could have hoped for, and I'm just so glad you're enjoying. Those of you who have reviewed and/or continue to do so-thank you so, so, much. Reviews are what keep me going, and I truly value each and every one. Hope to hear from you all soon, and happy reading!**

***Oh, one other thing-I'm really sorry about the spacing. I've tried to fix the formatting so that you can clearly see the transitions between Dean/John and Sam scenes, but for some reason the site isn't including any of them...I'll keep trying.**

Calloused fingers raise his chin and push it roughly, almost aggressively, into a flannel-covered shoulder, but Sam knows that there's no anger here. Later, maybe, but right now the quivering, raspy breaths filling his ears tell a poignant story of pain and pain relieved. Redemption. No matter what, Sam knows that from now on, he's got someone to lean on; he can take and give forgiveness, and that's all that matters. Dean's all that matters. One hand mashes his face downwards, hiding his eyes and pressing tears out from his lids. Sam can't find much air to breathe down here, so he breathes in the scent of his brother, inhaling the peculiar mixture of gunpowder, car oil, leather and a touch of whisky in great, snotty, ugly snorts. He worms his own arms out from beneath his brother's crushing hug and wraps them around a strong back, feeling muscles bunch and tense beneath his palms.

Dean makes no move to pull back, but at long last the trickles of wet warmth creeping down Sam's neck stop, and Sam finally heaves himself backwards and upright. His eyes aren't blurry enough that he can't see Dean's watery smile and grinning, stubbled face, and damn him if that isn't the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"D-Dean?" The name falls out from his mouth before he can think, not out of doubt but the almost unbelievable peace of a lifted burden. Dean's face twists strangely, mouth going up and down at the same time as though he can't decide whether to laugh or cry, and Sam feels his own mirror the expression.

"As you wish, princess," Dean murmurs with a hint of his old Cheshire Cat grin, and Sam chokes on a hiccupping sob and laugh. Trust his brother to bring out _The Princess Bride_ in a moment like this—it was one of Sam's favorite stories when he was little, and the teasing he had to endure from Dean was tortuous. But of course, the next moment Dean would pat the bed next to him invitingly and, with a pro forma groan, begin to read. Tears well up in Sam's eyes again at the memory, and he wipes at them furiously in a futile attempt to preserve a scrap of dignity.

"Jerk." The old insult comes naturally, as though no time has passed at all and Sam never left, and Dean picks up the tempo without missing a beat.

"Bitch."

"You really suck, you know that?" is all Sam can say in return, and Dean winks exaggeratedly at him, paying no heed to the wet streaks on his cheeks and the teardrop hanging from his nose.

"Right back atcha, Sammy. You think you're ready to stop wiping the floor with the seat of your jeans and get up, little brother?" A hand extends, grasping Sam's own in a firm grip and levering him to his feet. A twinge racks Sam's back at the movement, and immediately and wordlessly an arm snakes around his back while a hand plants itself solidly on the front of Sam's chest. Wordless glances are exchanged, and Dean gently turns Sam to face the wall, one hand on the back of Sam's neck, allowing him a moment of privacy to wipe his face and collect himself. A napkin slips into Sam's fingers, and he can't help snorting at the printed motto: "Pita Pan Lunch &amp; Diner."

"You think that one's good, you should've seen the one Dad dragged me to the week before last: "Bread Zeppelin"? I mean, seriously?!"

Dean steps in front of Sam, pursing his lips theatrically and nodding. "Yup, all ready for prom. You good?" The worry isn't gone, only masked, and Sam knows that it'll be a while before he can wipe that look away, maybe forever. He knows that behind the playful jokes and bad-boy illusion, one big brother is almost as much of an emotional wreck as he is. They're a matching set, he thinks, and his lips twitch in spite of himself. One jumps, the other follows, that's how it's always been. Up until this latest chapter, of course. The smile fades, and he pulls it back up again as best he can.

"Yeah. Yeah, 'k, I'm good."

"Alright."

"Heya, Sammy." The steadfast voice trembles a little, and Sam locks his jaw, turning on his heel…

…and immediately stepping straight into his father's open arms, which lock around him as if they'll never let go.

"Hey, Dad." He reciprocates the gesture, feeling the thudding heartbeat under his own and the way his father's fingers dig desperately into his back, as though afraid that if they don't hold him close he'll disappear.

And, "aw, c'mon," groans a voice by Sam's back, and suddenly the weight around his body dips and tightens as a third pair of arms joins the group and fringe of spiky hair brushes his temple.

Framed by his family, Sam Winchester drops the act and all the walls.

Well, maybe not all of them...

**And there you go! More to come soon, this story isn't done, not by a long shot. Please review if you can spare a moment.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: A continued thanks to all who are reading, and, most of all, reviewing! Reviews are beyond appreciated, so please consider taking a moment to say a few words. **

**Just a warning: there are brief but perhaps triggering or difficult references in this chapter, so please be aware. **

**Otherwise, enjoy!**

_It was raining upwards, again. The king was in a foul mood, and the weather reflected it, although in truth there was no real whether to speak of, just interminable chaos and confusion. The weather was too earthly to be anything more than an illusion sparked by a contrary mind and a sick spirit. Or entire lack thereof. _

_Vermillion drops pattered on the black granite tiles, splashing delicately on the columns and staining the floor a brilliant tie-dye of red on black and black on red. Dean slumped backwards in his throne, eyes flicking idly between black and hazel-green as though they had a mind of their own. A snap of his fingers, and the rain ceased; the liquid pooled and caved in on itself in many small vortexes before soundlessly disappearing. _

_"Your Highness?"_

_Dean noted, without turning his head, the young man's groveling stance and bowed head. Foolish boy—as though that would sway his master's will._

_"Yes? What can I do for y—oh dear, I am sorry, forgive me for that," he cooed, clicking his tongue and watching as the man imploded into a heap of black dust. The dust sifted and churned, pulling together into the shape of a human face, mouth gaping open and eyes wide and unseeing. "Sorry, Sammy. Just couldn't stand to have you around any more, you know? This is my home, after all. And this," he remarked, gesturing to the salt-and-pepper headed man standing ramrod straight behind him, "this human is not your father. He never wanted you, devil child." Dean spat out the words, the scream and thunder of war echoing in the chamber. "You've got demon blood in you, you freak. Even I don't want to get near you, and that's saying something." Black eyes again. "You don't belong, Sammy. Even your own kind rejects you. You know what, you're so wrong that I don't think you even belong to our race anymore! Fancy that, Sam."_

_A burst of flame, and fire flickered on the walls, illuminating the carved doorway as the wooden doors slammed shut._

_"You disgusting, insufferable, needy, problem child. The world doesn't want you. Heaven doesn't want you. Your family doesn't want you. Hell, even Hell doesn't want you, Sammy, what d'you think about that? War? That's the only thing you're fit for now. Maybe you'll even get yourself killed out there, Sammy bro. Could you do that for me? For me?"_

_C'mon, Sam, do it for me, ok little brother?_

_Sam?_

_Sam?_

"Sammy?"

Sam starts awake with a jerk, Dean's hand pressing firmly on his shoulder, and a pair of concerned green—_green_, not black—eyes swimming above his own.

"Sam? We're here, little brother, you think you can get out and we'll get you to some good food and a real bed?"

Sam nods and accepts the hand that reaches out to help him step out of the car, avoiding eye contact with his father and brother as the dream echoes in his mind.

"I'll get the bag, you boys head on inside. Dean, you go help Sam find his bed and some clean clothes, ok? I'll be in in a second."

"I got him, Dad."

Everyone is calm and tranquil, and Sam feels himself relaxing into the peace. He'd crashed almost as soon as they'd reached the Impala, the combination of relief, long-term sleep deprivation, and the soothing humming of Dean's "baby" knocking him out. A hand on his elbow guides him lightly inside the side door, down the hallway, and into their room…where three beds await them. Sam drops onto the one farthest from the door, shrugging off his coat and listening to Dean puttering around in the bathroom. A moment later, a glass of cold water is pressed into his hand, and he drinks deeply.

The snick of the lock in the door signals John's return, and Sam slides back along the bed to prop his back against the wall. John drops the weapons bag and Sam's own duffle on the floor and pulled out one of their rifles, beginning to clean it before evidently thinking better of it and putting it away.

Dean settles himself on the bed opposite Sam, while John pulls up a chair. No one speaks.

Sam clears his throat awkwardly, allowing his eyes to slip closed. Dean's voice breaks the silence.

"So, aren't you going to fill us in? I mean, hell, Sam, we haven't heard from you, seen from you for months, now. Long time no see, huh? Let's hear what you've been up to, little brother."

"Dean." John's voice intercepts Dean's. Reservation and warning color his tone, a message to tread carefully. "Easy there, son."

Dean turns his eyes from Sam to his father, a strange light glinting. " 'Easy there, son?' Is that all you have to say, Dad, that's it? Sam ran off to join the goddamn _military_, Dad, to _fight_, so forgive me if I have some things to say about that! And does he ask us what we think, do we take this like a family decision? Oh no, he just up and goes like it's none of our business, like he doesn't even _have _a family. Why'd you do it, Sam, huh? Or should I not ask that? Maybe that's none of my business—what does it matter if I'm your brother anyhow? Not like we were ever close, not like we ever talked to each other anyway, right? I'll just applaud you for making up your own mind, shall I? Look at you, my little brother, all grown up. Bet you even made some friends over there, maybe some adopted family, even. 'Course, you weren't lonely for us, didn't even feel the need for contact—I mean, who would? Who cares if your own brother, who practically _raised_ you all your life, doesn't know if he's ever going to hear from you again, doesn't know if you're wounded or even _dead_, thinks maybe you've gone and gotten yourself killed while thinking your family hates you and you hate them? Cause that's the message you're giving me, Sam, you're being pretty clear about it. Or maybe you just hate your family? C'mon, enlighten me."

Sam clears his throat again. God, why was it so _hot_ in here? "Dean, I just…"

"Oh, I see, Sam, 'you just,' didn't you? Well, you can 'just' tell me what the _hell_ you've been playing at the last coupla months!"

The heat is rising: in Dean's voice, in the air, in Sam's chest and the sorrowful look in Dad's eyes. Strange that Dean's the one spewing at him, not Dad, but Sam can't think clearly any more, just lets the torrent come.

"Ok, _big brother_, you want to know what I've been doing? Trying to get myself a sort-of-maybe-kind-of _normal_ life, or as close to one as I'll ever get. I'm tired of being a freak, Dean—I'm tired of being the kid who never stays in one school for more than a month, who makes friends only to break them when I leave before we barely get to know each other! I don't want to tiptoe around other people and make sure we don't cross into the topic of my life, and I don't want to lie and steal and eat food from fake credit cards and pool-hustled money. I just want to be a down-to-earth kind of guy for once, do something good and brave and then get a thank you in return instead of my guts ripped out at the ripe old age of fifteen, ok? I'm a killer, Dean—I've _killed _people, Dean, can you even comprehend what that _means_? I've been killing since I was nine years old, since I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet and he gave more a .45. I'm sick of fighting with Dad and bickering with you and getting dragged out on hunts, fighting with monsters that normal people can't even imagine and continuing on this stupid quest to find the thing that killed Mom."

"You better not go there, do you hear me?" Dean growls, a snarl twisting his lips.

"Oh, I'm going there, Dean, believe me. This has gone far enough. All right, so you want to hear what I've been doing for the past months, what I've been up to? I've been fighting in the _goddamn_ _military_, Dean, dodging bullets and bombs and not just watching a few strangers get killed from an unfortunate poltergeist or hell-bent spirit. I've seen _hundreds_ die right in front of my eyes, big brother, screaming and drowning and suffocating in their own blood and sweat. And after all that? One minute I'm on the field, the next everything goes all loopy and black and I feel like my body's being burned and shredded and chopped all at once. I wake up two weeks later, don't remember anything; I'm an anonymous soldier in a hospital full of dying and broken men, and I can't remember a _single thing_, Dean, not one. I've got a tear in my leg and a bullet hole in my shoulder and shrapnel scars on my back, I'm in pain all the time, and the only thing I can think is that I don't know where my family is, or if I even have one. Not like there was anyone to visit me in the hospital, huh? I'm in there recovering for _weeks_, Dean, and even after I get my memory back, no one comes. I remember everything, Dean, I remember that last fight with Dad, and now I'm in pain and alone. I thought you wouldn't forgive me, ok? I thought you were too mad to look for me, so I was too proud to look for you. And I'm sorry, Dean, Dad, ok? I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

His voice breaks on the last syllable, and he bows his head as the tears well up in his eyes.


	13. CE to be continued! (note)

Hello, friends! Last author note, sorry to be sending out so many of these...

Just wanted to say thank you all so, so much for reading _Colors of the End_, and for the kind words and dedication so many of you have given it. I had no idea it was so important to so many, and I certainly have no wish to distress anyone, so I am honored and excited to announce that **I will continue to work on (and eventually complete) ****_Colors of the End. _**I'm getting back to work right away, so I hope you'll all stick around, and above all, I hope it doesn't disappoint! I'll update as soon as I get a nice, full chapter (or two) ready-I'm also working on _So Come, You Stormy Seas_, but I'll do my best to update them both within the next day or so. And both will be completed. Thank you again, so much.


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